Fever
by Lex
Summary: Marguerite / Roxton - takes place after "Marguerite's Gift."


FEVER

By Lex

Sequence: takes place after "Marguerite's Gift."

Rated R for sexual content

To KR: again, again and again

__

Roxton: "I'm damned?"

Old Man: "Only in your heart, but that's the one place that counts."

From the Resurrection episode of The Lost World

Roxton and Marguerite were on their way back to the treehouse when Roxton first began to feel ill. Originally, he experienced only a headache and slight dizziness, but, as time went on, he felt increasingly worse. His pace slowed to such an extent that Marguerite, who normally had to burst into occasional spates of near-jogging to keep up with Roxton's long-legged stride, found herself looking back at him with some concern.

Roxton had proposed the expedition earlier in the week, during dinner, ostensibly to check out the aftereffects of the grenade blast that had sealed off a possible escape route from the plateau. He went on to explain that at least one night of camping - possibly two - would be required to investigate any potential exit that remained.

"Roxton," said Challenger, giving him a strange look, "What foolishness is this? That passageway was thoroughly bl … "

"And," Roxton hastily interrupted, "I thought, Marguerite, since you knew Burton, you might want to come along to make sure we've seen the last of the bastard."

Challenger chuckled quietly to himself at this questionable logic; Roxton's subterfuge was not difficult to penetrate.

Marguerite looked up from her book, which she was rudely reading at the dinner table. "Camping?" she said scornfully, raising her eyebrows and looking as if someone had offered her a cup of mud. " I don't think so! Isn't living in this old bungalow bad enough?"

Ned good-naturedly volunteered, " I'll go with you, Roxton … " and, as Roxton glared exasperatedly at him, broke off, " … or maybe not … " Veronica laughed; Roxton's face was quite a study as he contemplated a romantic interlude in a tent with … Malone.

"Marguerite … " coaxed Roxton. He flashed her a charming smile.

Marguerite put up her hand. "Oh, no, no, no." She shook her head. "You're not changing my mind, John Roxton! I have no desire to go trudging off into the jungle, eat slop generously laced with bugs, sleep on the ground under a dirty piece of canvas … "

"Margueriiiite … " wheedled Roxton.

They were still arguing when the others, of one accord, left the table, wanting to be absent if the conversation took a more amorous turn, or, as was more likely, ended in an angry explosion.

The following morning, when Malone, Veronica, Summerlee, and Challenger arrived at the breakfast table, they were surprised to see a smugly whistling Roxton and a resigned Marguerite fastening their packs and preparing to set off.

"Ah, to the victor!" joked Challenger, slapping Roxton heartily on the back. Roxton grinned triumphantly and acknowledged the compliment with a nod of his head, while Marguerite rolled her eyes. Summerlee said lightly to Marguerite, amid the laughter of the others, "I see that Roxton's powers of persuasion were too much, even for you, my dear."

"One more word … **_one more word_** … from any of you," Marguerite erupted threateningly, " … and I'll stay here and do my very best to make your lives a living hell for the next two days." The treehouse was suddenly silent. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.

"That's my girl, full of sunshine!" quipped Roxton, and then, startled, stepped back as Marguerite turned the full force of her glare on him.

"Did you say something, John?" she asked with careful civility.

"Me? Uh, no … " mumbled Roxton, suddenly very busy checking his rifle.

"I didn't think so," said Marguerite coolly and, shouldering her pack, entered the elevator. Roxton hurried after her.

Veronica called sweetly after them, as the elevator began its descent, "Have a good time," her voice shaking with mirth. The four explorers tried not to look at each other until they heard the impact of the elevator reaching the ground, but then they could hold off no longer. They simultaneously burst into gales of laughter, holding the chairs for support and clutching their sides.

"The sheep led away to slaughter … " Challenger finally managed to gasp, weakly wiping at the tears streaming down his face.

"They'll come back holding hands … if she doesn't kill him," predicted Malone, doubled over.

"Now, now," chided Summerlee, collapsing against the table, "You mustn't underestimate Lord Roxton. Marguerite may make a lot of noise, but I'd say that Roxton has the situation well in hand. He knows what he's about; he's just smart enough not to flaunt it," he added wisely.

"I think maybe you're right, Summerlee," conceded Veronica. "Marguerite isn't as tough as she appears."

"If you say so," said Malone doubtfully, shaking his head, and poured himself some coffee.

*************************************************************

Once he and Marguerite were out of sight of the treehouse, Roxton turned to Marguerite and said warmly, " I'm glad you agreed to come along, Marguerite." He gently brushed a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. Marguerite smiled reluctantly at him. "I suppose we might manage to enjoy ourselves somehow," she admitted begrudgingly. Roxton looked pleased. "We'll think of something; now let's get going," he winked. "I really do want to check out that area where Burton disappeared."

Marguerite stood back and let Roxton take the lead. She thought to herself how very much at home Roxton looked here in the jungle, how completely the hawk-eyed, dangerous hunter had taken over. His whole stance, his entire being, radiated confidence, strength, and alertness. She had never met anyone with such keen senses - even Veronica - or with such innate skill at tracking, such a feel for the peril, the wildlife, and the resources around him. He sometimes reminded her of a big jungle cat, stalking powerfully through the foliage. Marguerite loved to see him like this, although she would never admit it, and watching him now, she felt desire for him kindling within her.

"Any day now, Marguerite," Roxton called impatiently and she scrambled to catch up.

***********************************************************

Roxton had, in fact, been fairly certain that grenade blast had indeed sealed up the passage to the outside world, but he figured it couldn't hurt to make sure … not to mention the excuse that the trip gave him to spend two days alone with Marguerite. But after hours of fruitless searching for any sign of an exit, Roxton knew no more time was needed to determine that that exit was well and truly blocked. Strangely enough, he wasn't particularly upset by this knowledge, and he stretched out lazily on a flat rock, with his dark head in Marguerite's lap. Marguerite again gave herself over to enjoying the sight of her lover. He had long since removed his shirt; the day was extremely hot and his hard upper body was sheened in sweat. He'd inadvertently left his slouch hat at the treehouse and his face was burned by the intense sun; Marguerite took off her own hat and used it to shade him. Her gaze fastened on his roughened hands, hands that gave her so much pleasure, that could drive her to distraction, that could make her call out his name, and she knew that she could easily be lost forever, to him and to this world. Marguerite swallowed convulsively. She wanted to feel those hands on her body right now. She wanted to run for her life. Her muscles tensed.

As usual, Roxton seemed to sense her unease. He had always had a way with skittish, high-strung young animals, and he often thought of Marguerite in this way. He reached up and rubbed her upper arm soothingly. 

"Hey, " he said, "What's the matter, love?" 

She stared at him, amazed. Had she become so transparent to everybody - or just to John Roxton? She didn't know how to answer him. Finally she said in frustration, " John, don't you **_want_** to go home?" 

Roxton sat up next to her and put his strong arm around her slim shoulder, drew her head to his bare chest. "Yes … yes, I do. But, I don't know, there's something about being on the plateau that makes me feel more … I don't know." He struggled to find the right words. "More alive. More like myself," he ventured half-ashamed to admit it. "It's exciting, everyday is an adventure, a challenge." He nuzzled her hair. "Yes, I want to be able to **_get_** home, but I'm not sure … I'm not sure that I could **_stay_** there, anymore than I could before." Marguerite was still. She closed her eyes. She knew very well what tragedy had driven him, in recent years, to such extremes of restlessness and such daring exploits. Her heart ached. "But it's different now," Roxton continued, consideringly, sounding as if he had surprised himself with the conclusion he had drawn. "I'm happier than I was. I don't think about … about … William … about what happened … every minute of every day; it doesn't keep me awake at night anymore. And," here, he grinned down at her, and with his hand under her chin, tilted her face upwards so he could look into her clear, cool eyes, "I fell in love. This expedition changed a lot of things for me, but not so much as loving you has. I used to curse every new day when I woke up; now, well … I'm happy to be around. So wherever I end up, Marguerite, I'll be alright - if I'm with you." He stopped, slightly embarrassed by this long speech.

Marguerite, touched, smiled sweetly up at him. She loved the line of his jaw and traced it softly with her finger. Roxton's breath caught; he pushed her heavy hair back from her face and kissed her mouth. She laughed. "I think you need to clean up, John," and, rising, took his hands and pulled him to his feet.

"Oh, thanks," Roxton said wryly. "I can always count on you to say something romantic."

"Mmmm … I was hoping to join you."

"Well, that's a different story, Marguerite."

Near their camp, high on the hillside, a small waterfall cascaded into a beautiful, clear river, forming a pool just right for swimming. It was a lovely sight, the water tumbling over walls of rock, and the sun glinting on the water below. But Roxton's eyes were focused only on Marguerite. She had removed her boots and perched on the pool's bank, her knees drawn up and encircled by her arms, her chin resting on her knees. Her hair was loose, the way he liked it, and she wore a crooked little grin as she watched him undress and plunge enthusiastically into the water. Her stare was so bold, so appreciative, that Roxton, after swaggering a bit for Marguerite's benefit, began to feel a bit discomfited.

"I thought you were going to join me?"

"I am," she teased. She stood leisurely and very slowly began to unbutton her lavender blouse. Her wide, gray eyes never left his face. All of a sudden, Roxton's throat felt very dry. He swallowed. The blouse fell to the ground, uncovering Marguerite's white shoulders. She slid her hands into the waistband of her khakis and pushed them, along with her panties, down her shapely legs and stepped out of them. As she bent slightly, Roxton could see her breasts swelling over the top of her lacy camisole. His breath was ragged as he watched her slither out of that last remaining garment. "How's the water, John?" she said, smiling, cat-like, at him.

"Marguerite. Get over here."

"It looks cold," she said demurely.

That did it. He was painfully hard. Roxton came at her, growling like an animal - she turned him **_into_** a wild animal, for Christ's sake - reached up, and pulled her into the pool. He ran his hands down her body; he felt her hips rock against him briefly, brush fleetingly across his groin, there and gone, before she backed slowly away from him, her hands on her breasts. Her eyes dared him to follow.

"Oh, you little bitch," Roxton swore. But he was enjoying this highly charged game, and he advanced on her determinedly. The waves of desire surging over him were so powerful that he was barely coherent. "You little tease … you beauty … just let me … give me …" The small, purring sounds Marguerite was making in the back of her throat drove him crazy, and he bridged the shrinking distance between them with huskily-voiced sex words, love words, promises of what he would do to her, do for her. The huntsman in him observed the effect his words were having on her: Marguerite's breath was coming in rapid bursts, her eyes were half-closed and glazed with want, and she was trembling. Roxton closed in for the kill, and kissed her.

Marguerite whimpered as he gripped her tightly and buried his head in the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her hands raked frantically through his sleek, wet hair, pressing him closer to her. Mixing love-bites and hard kisses, Roxton backed her against the wall of rock, half-under the falling water. She cried out, calling for him to please, please go inside her, now … so he did, lifting her with the force of his thrusts, her long legs wrapping themselves snugly around his moving hips, his hand behind her head, cushioning her from the rock behind her as he drove her up and back, and up and back, again, again and again, until she tightened around him. He felt her nails dig into his back and her teeth sink into his shoulder. In ecstasy, he screamed her name and then everything was running together like the water flowing over them.

That night, as he slept, with Marguerite in his arms, the words he'd spoken earlier echoed and reechoed in Roxton's brain: " I'm happier than I was. I don't think about William."

****************************************************************

Marguerite, who was usually the last one out of bed, was up, washed and dressed before Roxton had fully awakened. He finally rose, feeling lethargic and groggy. 

"Whew," he shook his head, as if to clear it, " I guess I'm not the man I used to be, because I'm worn out!" he joked.

"Maybe I'm just more than you can handle," suggested Marguerite slyly.

"Hmmm … now, that's not quite the way I remember it. Let's see, what was it you whispered to me last night while I was … ahem … 'handling' you?"

"OK, OK," interrupted Marguerite hastily. "I take it back."

************************************************************************

Now, on the way home, seeing Roxton uncharacteristically lag farther and farther behind, Marguerite stopped and walked back to him.

"John," she queried. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not feeling well," Roxton admitted. "Maybe I should rest for a bit." This was so unlike the stoic Roxton that Marguerite became anxious. She watched, concerned, as he sat down with his back against a tree and closed his eyes. Marguerite lifted her canteen to his lips; she drew back, shocked. Roxton was absolutely burning up with fever. "Roxton!" she said sharply, with an irritation born of worry. "Why didn't you say something earlier?" He didn't answer immediately; then,

"Marguerite? You still here?" without opening his eyes.

"Where the hell would I go?" she retorted tersely, frantically reviewing in her mind the little she knew about plants used to bring down fever.

"Full of sunshine … " murmured Roxton drowsily and was instantly asleep. Marguerite wet a cloth with water from her canteen and laid it gently on Roxton's forehead. Then she crouched down next to him and took his hand in hers. "Don't you do this to me, John," she admonished him in a shaky voice. "I mean it. I need you, so just don't you do this to me." She felt tears threaten, and to stave them off, she concentrated on cursing the Godforsaken plateau with every foul word she knew. 

When Roxton awoke about an hour later, he opened his eyes to Marguerite gazing at him with care and concern on her ashen face. He was disoriented and his vision was blurred but one thing he could clearly see. "Careful, Marguerite," he muttered. "Your feelings are showing."

She tried to smile at him. "How do you feel?"

"Not so good."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk. It's just a little fever." Roxton attempted to get to his feet, but was overcome by such dizziness that he reeled backward. Pain knifed through his head and the world around him spun madly.

"Oh, God, John! What's wrong with you?" cried Marguerite in despair. She hated feeling so helpless.

Roxton tried not to show how shaken he was by what just happened. He was responsible for Marguerite. He gathered what was left of his waning strength and said as firmly as he could,"

"Look, Marguerite, you're going to have to leave me here …"

"No!"

" … leave me here, " Roxton continued tenaciously, each word an effort, "… and bring back Challenger and Malone. Tell them to bring something to carry me on, and if Summerlee has anything for a fever …"

"John! I can't leave you here!"

"You have no choice, Marguerite. I can't make it back to the treehouse, you can't carry me, and if you don't get me back where Summerlee or Veronica can treat me, I'll just get worse. Now, come on, don't go to pieces on me. Leave me a full canteen and kiss me goodbye."

Marguerite realized that Roxton was right: she had no choice. He was depending on her, and she didn't want him to worry. So she raised her eyebrow and gave him her old familiar line, 

"Are you telling me what to do, Lord Roxton?"

He managed a semblance of a smile. "I'm afraid I am."

"Well, I'll do it … THIS time," she said, leaning down to kiss him, and set off before she changed her mind.

******************************************************************

Roxton was barely conscious by the time Marguerite returned with Challenger and Malone. The men had brought a homemade stretcher, of wood and animal skins, and some medicinal powder sent by Veronica, which they brewed into a tea for Roxton. The tea did bring about a slight lowering of his body temperature, but it was still a long, anxious trip home. 

Challenger and Malone put Roxton to bed immediately upon their arrival at the treehouse; Summerlee brewed him some more tea, bathed him with cool, wet cloths, and tended the young man as best he could. If only the fever would break! Right now, sleep was the best thing for him, so Summerlee covered his friend with a light blanket and left him alone with Marguerite, who sat in a chair by his bedside, taking the first watch.

She gazed at Roxton's drawn face. His breathing was labored and his sleep was fitful. Worriedly, she placed her hand on his brow; his skin felt so hot! In his sleep, he leaned into her hand. She smiled sadly, brushed his hair back from his forehead ('it never **_does_** stay neat,' she thought fondly), and settled down to watch over her man.

************************************************************************

Roxton awoke slowly and painfully, to a throbbing refrain in his aching head. The words resounded, growing ever louder, until it was almost unbearable: " I'm happier than I was. I don't think about William." Roxton's head felt like it would split in two and the noise in his head threatened to deafen him. He was about to scream in protest when a man's voice cut smoothly through the litany.

"I'm sorry to hear you don't think about me any longer, brother. I think about you often."

Roxton opened his eyes. Sitting by his bed was a blond young man who bore a very slight resemblance to Roxton. His ivory hunting jacket was marred by a large uneven splotch of blood over the chest. Roxton closed his eyes, opened them again, and rubbed his hands desperately across his face, but the other young man remained where he was. "William!" Roxton cried, grabbing his dead brother's arm.

************************************************************************

Challenger was startled out of a light sleep by the sudden clutch of Roxton's hand on his arm. "John - you're awake!"

"William … Oh, God … I'm so sorry … so sorry …"

"John, it's Challenger." Challenger tried to place a comforting hand on the sick man's shoulder, but Roxton started violently and shook him off.

"You're here to remind me because I was forgetting … how could I have forgotten that I'm damned … " Roxton's voice was wild and his voice tormented. He grew suddenly silent, appearing, to Challenger, to be listening to a speaker who was inaudible to any but himself. "It was an accident … you **_must_** know that … I was trying … "

"He's delirious," muttered Challenger, and tried to bathe Roxton's face with a damp cloth. An agonized groan broke from Roxton's throat.

************************************************************************

For Roxton's friends, sitting tensely in the common room, the choked cries coming from within sounded frightening. When a shaken Challenger eventually joined them, Roxton having finally dropped off into an exhausted but fevered sleep, they clustered around the tired professor.

"How is he?" Summerlee spoke the question that was on all their faces.

"The fever has got to break - he can't sustain a body temperature at this level for much longer. He's delirious, " reported Challenger. "He thinks I'm William."

"Oh, no!" whispered Marguerite.

"He is apparently convinced that unless he is forgiven, given permission to move on with his life, that his … uh … his soul is lost. In short, that he will die a damned man undeserving of a happy life. Hearing William forgive him, acknowledge that the shooting was an accident, could be the key to breaking the entire cycle of guilt and recovery. To know he is not damned … "

"Well, what did you say?" interrupted Marguerite impatiently.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What did you tell him? He thinks you're William, you said. Tell him he's forgiven!"

"What?! My dear Marguerite, how can I possibly do such a thing? It would be nothing more than a sop!"

"That may save his life!" said Veronica.

"Ladies, as much as I want Roxton to recover, it is not my place to dispense divine justice. I'm not God; I'm just a man. How can I take on a mantle of that kind of authority? We're talking about a man's **_faith_**; It would be a mockery of Roxton's own beliefs. Offensive …"

"Challenger, " Marguerite spat out through gritted teeth. "Roxton has kept us alive many a time. He's risked his life for us. You get your ass in there and tell him whatever he needs to hear; I don't care what it is! If it gives him the will to live, you'll have saved him. If he doesn't make it, I'll not have him die thinking that he is damned for eternity. You **_make_** it your place to dispense divine justice, Challenger, or I will personally force you in there at gunpoint to do so."

************************************************************************

Roxton was walking down a twisting and unfamiliar path in the darkened jungle. He was unable to get his bearings. He realized that he was unarmed. Cursing his stupidity in having forgotten his weapon, he hurried onward, hoping to catch a glimpse of a recognizable landmark. He rounded a bend, then stopped in his tracks. In front of him, a couple was embracing, pale and ghostly in the faint moonlight. The man was William. He was wearing his bloodied jacket, but now it was open, and as he slowly turned to face Roxton, the gaping, gushing wound in his chest became visible. Roxton was shivering uncontrollably but could make no sound. Then he saw that the woman was his Marguerite. She was naked, and as she, too, turned in his direction, Roxton was horrified to see William's scarlet blood smeared over her breasts, stomach, and mouth. Her eyes, usually so expressive, were lifeless and cold. At last, Roxton found his voice in a tortured scream … and he kept on screaming, as the dead lovers and the jungle surrounded him.

************************************************************************

In the common room, Marguerite heard him and she cried, almost hysterically, to Challenger, "Get the hell in there, you stubborn bastard!"

"I agree with her, " added Veronica, in tears. "You can help him!"

"Challenger. Help him, please," said Malone. "You know he'd do anything to save you."

Challenger was distraught. He felt so strongly that to perpetrate a hoax of this nature was truly wrong. He had learned the perils of playing God. He looked to Summerlee for guidance. "Arthur?"

Summerlee nodded at him. "I think in this case, it's the right thing to do."

"Very well," conceded Challenger, and, squaring his shoulders, walked in to deliver Roxton's life and soul from Hell.

************************************************************************

Challenger, in his role as William, had sat by the sickbed and assured the patient over and over again that he was forgiven, that damnation was neither his fate nor what he deserved. These assurances had the desired results: Roxton's fever had finally broken, he had calmed was deep in an exhausted sleep. He was still feverish but the crisis had passed. Challenger staggered, fatigued, from Roxton's room and gave the others the good news.

Roxton awoke, hours later, to find Marguerite curled up, asleep and wrapped in her silk robe, in one of the high-backed chairs next to his bed. He had known she was there, had taken comfort from her presence in the night. He gazed at her peacefully; she was so exquisitely beautiful. She would stay with him, he knew. But something troubling was gnawing at the corners of his brain, something he had dreamt, perhaps, about her … Suddenly, Roxton needed to awaken her. "Marguerite," he said, and tried to raise his head. He was surprised at how weak he felt and let his head drop back to the pillow. "Marguerite!' he said, more urgently, and she heard him and woke up. 

Immediately placing her hand on his forehead, Marguerite determined that Roxton no longer had any fever and she whispered, her eyes luminous, "You scared m … us."

"Marguerite … " he rasped. "Let me … let me look at you." He stared intently at her lovely face. Without thinking, but following his heart, he raised his hands and slid them under the lapels of her robe, pushing the garment slowly, so slowly, down her shoulders. She was nude under the robe and his hands looked very brown against her white arms. Marguerite remained unmoving, almost not breathing, as his hands and the edges of the robe caught in the crook of her elbows. Roxton took in the sight of her, her creamy skin and the lines of her body, as he lay back. He could feel exhaustion stealing over him again and just before he fell asleep, he whispered, "Will you stay?"

"Shh, John, " Marguerite soothed. "I'm here … I'm here, and we're home."

__

"Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill."*

END

*Robert Louis Stevenson (1850 - 1894)


End file.
